


Viewfinder

by orange_crushed



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Marauders' Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-16
Updated: 2011-04-16
Packaged: 2017-10-18 03:30:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/184509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orange_crushed/pseuds/orange_crushed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There are always two people in every picture: the photographer and the viewer."<br/>-Ansel Adams</p>
            </blockquote>





	Viewfinder

"I don't like my camera," Sirius lies, to disguise the fact that he has already broken it. He drowned it by trying to take pictures of his own toes in the bathtub. "Let's take yours."

So they do.

 

 

"Take a picture of me," says Sirius. There is only one tree within a hundred yards of them, and he's climbing it. He locks his knees over the branch and swings upside-down, his hair and his shirt making an unexpected dash for the ground. He hangs for an awkward second with his face covered and his belly exposed and the shutter clicks. Remus is laughing. "Shut it, you," grumbles Sirius, from under the cotton.

"Sirius Black in his natural state," Remus says, winding the film. "A National Geographic exposé."

"I'll exposé your face," he says. Sirius clambers back up to a higher branch and then swings down, landing with knees bent and losing his balance. He rolls to one side and lies there on his back, dried grass in his mouth. He chews. "Do you think you can take pictures of magic ?" Remus tilts his head to the side in thought.

"Probably with your camera," he answers, and sits down beside Sirius. "Mine's a regular muggle one, so if you wanted to take a picture of a whole spell it'd have to be yours." He leans back on his palms. His sleeves are rolled up and Sirius doesn't look away from the wrist that is now at his eye level. Remus's skin is like a clean sheet of paper that somebody has been drawing on, so faintly; Sirius traces the line of a scar with a piece of tall grass and Remus yelps and snatches his hand away. "Are you trying to stick grass up my shirt ?"

"Yes. Take it like a man." He's lying again. He moves on. "I don't want to take a picture of a whole spell. Just a second of a spell. Like," he gestures, "bam and click. I think it'd look cooler on yours."

"Sure," Remus shrugs. "We can try. But we'll have to be fast. It's supposed to rain." He takes the lens cap off and Sirius reaches out.

"Let me," he says. "Come on, let me take one." Remus glares at him, a plain warning on his face, and Sirius puts one hand over his heart. "I solemnly swear not to fuck up your camera, Moonsie. And consider, there's not a body of water anywhere near."

"Idiot," says Remus, and hands it over. Sirius fiddles with the settings and Remus scowls until he stops. Remus casts _lumos_ , lighting the tip of his wand. He cups his hand over it and draws it out, the fledgling glow, rolling it between his fingertips, making a ball, a star, a sun. He lets his wand go and rolls it in both hands, whispering to it, feeding it. When he pulls his fingers apart it becomes a halo, a circle of pure white light chest-high, and he holds it up for Sirius to see. "Now ?" he asks. Sirius presses the shutter. "Did you get it ?" When he speaks the light flickers like breathing. Brightness touches and softens the tips of his fringe, his eyelashes, his nose and mouth and his fingertips, his chest and the tops of his thighs, all the edges of Remus that are close enough to touch. He shines like a pearl.

"Yeah." Sirius can't look at him. "I got it."

 

 

For his birthday Remus got a darkroom in his bedroom closet, and now they are crowded in there, rubbing their sweaty elbows together and banging them on the second-hand enlarger. Remus's hands smell like chemicals when he holds the picture up. "Another successful experiment, Professor Pads," he says. "I think it came out pretty well."

Sirius asks for his own copy.

By the time they get back to school, it has tattered edges and thick creases from being folded. After the feast, when everyone else is still downstairs, Sirius pins it up on the wall behind his bed and charms it to look like a photo of Italy in daylight. At night with the curtains closed it is Remus, and Remus's circle of light, which seems to beam down on him even through the paper. He sleeps every night with that candle burning.

When Remus finally comes into his bed he props himself up on his elbows and glances up. "That's a picture of me," he says. Sirius watches him roll onto his side to meet his eyes. He has the sheet pulled up to his hip but his side is pale and bare and he radiates a little in the darkness, like Sirius knew he would. "I thought that was a postcard of Naples. Has that always been there ?"

"Yes," he says. No more lying. He smiles and brushes Remus's hair out of his eyes. "I like your camera best."


End file.
